"You threaten me," said Cousrouf, quietly." What evil can you add to that already inflicted? I do not fear your threat, and I shall not feel humiliated at being led a prisoner into the citadel, where I once ruled your master, and where Mohammed Ali, the sarechsme by my grace, so often knelt in the dust before me. I have been vanquished in honorable warfare, and in a just cause; and though you, the victor, triumph over, I shall still remain, your lawful master!"
"Prove this to the people of Cairo; see whether you will be recognized as master there; whether those who formerly flattered you will now raise a finger to liberate you, or restore you to the throne. And when you find that they will not, then remember, Cousrouf Pacha—that, too, is a part of Mohammed Ali's revenge—had I slain you, all your sufferings would have been at an end! But you shall live and suffer for many a long year to come! For Cousrouf Pacha caused Mohammed Ali to suffer for long years. Then suffer, Cousrouf; and, let me tell you, from this hour I shall suffer no longer—from this hour my wounds are healed, for your wounds bleed. And now go to Cairo humiliated, covered with disgrace, the prisoner of Mohammed Ali!"
CHAPTER X
THE RETURN TO CAIRO.
Joy and exultation reign in Cairo. The united forces of the Mamelukes, Albanians, and Armenians, have returned home crowned with victory. Damietta and Rosetta have fallen, and the Turks have everywhere retreated; a miserable remnant only have found safety in Alexandria, where Courschid Pacha rules.
The people throng the streets to witness the grand entrance of the victorious troops.
There, at the head of four thousand Mamelukes, surrounded by a body of beys and kachefs, comes Osman Bey Bardissi, the hero of so many battles. How sparkling his eyes, how radiant the smile with which he greets the populace that hails him with shouts of enthusiasm!
He passes by, and now come the Albanians and Armenians. At their head rides the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali; around him his bim bashis, in their glittering uniforms. But who is it that rides beside him on the splendidly-caparisoned ass—who is the man in the long green caftan, trimmed with fur, the green turban on his head adorned with its glittering crescent? He is unarmed, and yet he rides beside the sarechsme. His countenance is pale, and his lips are firmly compressed, as if to keep back a cry of rage that struggles for utterance. Who is this man? Can it be Cousrouf Pacha? Yes, it is he, the viceroy, the prisoner given to Mohammed Ali by Bardissi. In his magnanimity Mohammed had grasped Bardissi's arm, uplifted for the deadly stroke, and had thus saved his enemy's life. And now he generously allows the man whose life he has saved to ride into Cairo at his side. The people relate this to each other, and are loud in their praises of the sarechsme's magnanimity.
Was it magnanimity? Ask Cousrouf, who feels that the favor shown him by his enemy is worse than death, who feels with anguish that he is merely an object of contempt, while the air resounds with the people's enthusiastic greeting to the accursed Mohammed Ali. Him the people had never saluted thus; upon his head the sheiks and cadis had never invoked Allah's blessing.
Now the citadel looms up before them; the sarechsme's countenance is radiant; smilingly he turns to Cousrouf.